


Cadmus? Cadmus.

by memearchive



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics), Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Dick Grayson, Beyond here you are unsafe., Both<3, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Cadmus is mentioned a lot., Confusion, Dick Grayson Whump, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Dick Grayson is Not Okay, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotionally Repressed, Excessive Italization, Gen, God I hope I'm using that right., I mean he is but it's not a primary plot point. I just feel like informing you., It's Nightwing what do you expect from me he's got to be at least somewhat in character., It's referenced approximately twice but still, Just in general, Medical Examination, Medical Experimentation, Medical Procedures, Medical Torture, Medical Trauma, Metahuman Dick Grayson, Metahumans, Of the evil kind if you know what I mean, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Tags Contain Spoilers, Tags May Change, Tension, That's it that's the Nightwing., That's the closest to a spoiler you'll get., Trans Dick Grayson, Wally West is The Flash, Warnings May Change, Yeah basically., You can pull my bent words from my cold; double jointed fingers., You get to pick if it's sexual or not, You know it baby me neither babes, you know it baby
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:28:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29598999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memearchive/pseuds/memearchive
Summary: "That's the problem, isn't it? That's been his problems for three entire days now, and he has yet to find a single goddamn clue to even begin scrounging for an answer. He just doesn't know what's wrong with him. Dick's just about ready to go to town on the nearest brick wall, pummeling it with his bare fists until there's nothing but ash left, because fuck it, he's Superman now. Why not? Sure! Sure.Dick does, in fact,  burn the journal on the twenty-second of February. He tosses it into a trashcan and lights the pages on fire before covering it, and walking out in full Nightwing get-up. The Mountain awaits."Or, Dick is going through the emotional wringer, and a new mission with his ex-dead best friend might throw him into a more physical one.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Wally West, It can be Birdflash if you want it to. I haven't decided yet.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First few chapters are short as shit, apologies. It looked like more in my writing program. For some reason, AO3 is the widest, thickest dumpie out there. I love it here but please. This looks like two words.

  
That's the _problem_ , isn't it? That's been his problems for three entire days now, and he has yet to find a single goddamn _clue_ to even begin scrounging for an answer. He just doesn't _know_ what's _wrong_ with him.

Pent-up anger bubbling up like he's a volcano, getting harder and so fucking hard to contain. His muscles tingling and screaming when he tries to hold it down, when someone tells him _just relax_ , tells him _I don't know what to tell you!_ , tells him _I don't know_ with the world's most crippling _sigh_. He hates when anyone sighs. _Anyone_. And Bruce is the king of all things disappointment- which came out quite wrong, but he's too tired to fix it- and spends about 80% of his time _sighing_.

Dick's just about ready to go to town on the nearest brick wall, pummeling it with his bare fists until there's nothing but _ash_ left, because _fuck it_ , he's Superman now. Why not? Sure! _Sure_.

But he doesn't. Because he has some sense of self-preservation, contrary to popular belief, contrary to his own preferences, even. He stares longingly at the white painted brick. He hates it. Why paint perfectly good bricks? He's got no clue, but it's there anyway. He could chip it all off, but that'd take forever and leave him more angry than before. Knocking it down with his hands would also do the trick, but again. Preservation.

Dick tried to soothe himself earlier. Three minutes earlier, to be exact. A cup of hot chocolate always calmed him as a child, but apparently having actual _marshmallows_ doesn't exist in his own house, so now he has a cup of disgustingly lukewarm chocolate paste sitting beside him that he refuses to drink from spite alone. He didn't eat lunch, either. There's just nothing to eat.

It's his apartment, _his_ fridge and pantry but he still likes to complain. How on Earth is he supposed to know what future-him is going to want?

He could always go to the store, he supposes. Could go to the Manor, maybe. Alfred will make him _something_ then force him to eat it, whatever it is. That would get him some calories. Or he could harass one of his many friends or that brother of his that refuses to acknowledge him half the time...That would be a dick move, even for Dick himself. He hasn't talked to any of them since his..." _temper tantrum_ " at the Mountain. Well, that’s what he thinks everyone else would call it. To be fair, now that he’s of- he wouldn’t say _right_ mind, but of _better_ mind- it kind of..fits.

Fair, it’s fair. That’s fair. He got upset, got more than upset, and threw quite a few items. Thankfully no one saw him slam his head against the wall, due to the fact that that was at home, where he is now, with a raging migraine. Some self-preservation does not necessarily mean _a lot_ of self-preservation.

Dick thinks he might have gotten triggered, at some point during the past week or maybe even two. That’s the only option that makes sense, but even then...he’s not sure what happened. Nothing extraordinary or over-the-top - even for both Gotham _and_ Blüdhaven - occurred, no crazy missions or super psychos. Just the usual average psychos and wonky missions. Honestly, it felt quite mundane.

Does that mean his stress levels _aren’t_ higher than they have any right to be? No, absolutely not, they 100% are beyond his normal high stress, and he can’t even pinpoint why that is. It’s aggravating, to be honest, and then that leads to more emotions, more anger and stress and more breakdowns.

Maybe he’s sick.

He had a stomach ache last night, so maybe that’s it.

Dick knows he should probably go to a therapist. Or Bruce. Or both. The World’s Greatest Detective could spot and diagnose a new mental illness faster than any psychologist Dick has been forced into the waiting room of, especially considering that he’s also Dick’s _father_. And an ex-med student. And friends with Harleen Quinzel, all things aside. It’s funny, sometimes, to come into the Batcave and see her on the uneven bars. He usually joins in, and they complain about Bruce while he’s right there.

Maybe he should go see _Harley_. She’s a friend- criminal side-life aside. A family friend, too. She knows his identity, she’s technically a psychologist, she’s known him since he was a _kid_...If he runs into her, he’ll ask to hang out, Dick decides. But he’s not going to go out of his way to get a _second opinion_ on his monthly identity crisis.

For the time being, Dick is busy scribbling down a more _in-depth_ recount of his past Nightwing activities than any mission report he’s ever written, ever, into a busted up journal that looks like it’d have far more writing in it than it does. It has none. Well, _prior_ to this.

Alright... _think_ , Night, think...


	2. The Journal of a Dying Bird - a self-named novel by Chard Ri. John Grayson AKA Nightwing AKA Robin I AKA The Man With Too Much Time And Not Enough Cheese

_Solo mission, February 1. Boring. Convert, go in get out, get the info. Penguin’s planning a mass weapons sale in a bigger ring than usual, probably just looking to expand his market. I got the contacts, turned them over to BPD and broke up the mess before it got a change to begin. Pretty sexy, if I do say so myself..._

  
_Patrol as usual, every week of February and January. Nothing big until Killer Croc showed his nasty face in the Blüdhaven canal. Nasty stuff. February 9th, got a few lacerations on my side, a cut on my face, 4 broken ribs and a twisted ankle. Called B for backup, and made out alive. Croc’s locked up in some high-tech facility, now. Lucky him._

  
_Second big break-out happened last week. There was snow for five days straight. Blüdhaven practically shut down for four of those, but I went out on the last day, just in case. It felt like a prime time for crime, but apparently I’m the only one here with any sort of criminal opportunistic knowledge. I’d make a great supervillain. Anyway, second day opened, got a face-full of Count Vertigo. He didn’t give me much trouble, but I was a bit off for a few days after. That was on the 16th._

  
_Day 20 of February. I am going insane. I have named my pillow Wilson, but it’s a bit awkward because of Slade. And his whole. Y’know. Existence. Asshole._

  
_Day 21 of February. Wilson has left me for another man. I will die alone. Perhaps this is for the best. Saw Jason on patrol, he didn’t even say hi. My own brother. I tried to call Tim, and he didn’t answer. My own brothers, plural. I am hated. I will now perform a slow contemporary solo to Lady Gaga Poker Face as an ode to my isolation._

  
_Day 21 of February, still, this shit is dumb, I think life just gave me that final push into insanity and this is just who I am from now on. I’m going to burn this piece of shit after this. I **knew** writing a journal was a bad idea, I told that fuckface of a therapist when I was 13 and she just told me to ‘give it a try, Richard! It might help, Richard! Give it a go, Richard! You’ll feel better, Richard!’ Richard does not feel better, it did not help Richard, and Richard has clearly given it multiple goes. Fuck you._

  
_Day 22 of February. Going to the Mountain. Mission. No details given prior. I have a bad feeling_.

* * *

  
Dick does, in fact, burn the journal on the twenty-second of February. He tosses it into a trashcan and lights the pages on fire before covering it, and walking out in full Nightwing get-up. The Mountain awaits.


	3. Chapter 3

Nightwing glares at the monitor, watching the map swivel, unimpressed. Evil scientific facility number eight, likely human experimentation, definitely evil weaponry and some domestic terrorism. The usual.

It’s a minimal risk, apparently, because only Flash and him are sent out, not that Nightwing has a problem with that. His _leadership_ skills have been...spotty, recently. And he and Wally haven’t really had a lot of time to catch-up in between his League responsibilities and Dick’s _Nightwing_ responsibilities. He grins at Wally, who grins back.

“Do not engage.” Flash mimics Batman as he explains the rest of the mission - since he’s _technically_ a League member, who is now _briefing the junior member, Nightwing_ , “Covert _only_ ,” he says and Dick rolls his eyes.

“Every time someone tells me _be covert_ , I am _always_ caught. Always! It’s a jinx. You’re jinxing this. We’re going to get our asses handed to us, Wall.”

“100%.” Wally agrees, nodding, “The amount of _times_ we got caught as kids-”

“You’d think the son of Batman and a _speedster_ could avoid detection.” Nightwing mutters, the two heading out to Nightwing’s motorcycle, “Well, I _do_ live for contradictions.”

Dick pulls the helmet on then glances at Wally, “So, you’re just gonna run after me, or are you gonna act like a human being, and sit down?”

“Why in god’s name would I want to act like a human being?”

Dick shrugs, and flicks the visor down, “See you on the flip side, _Flash_ ,” he says, revving the engine to punctuate his words, and then roars off onto the road.

* * *

Evil Scientific Facility Number Eight is apparently, _officially_ called _Tempest Technologies_ , which the two have a nice laugh about, and Nightwing makes a mental note to tell _Garth_ about it later. It looks about what one would expect of a government sanctioned domestic terrorist laboratory, with a thousand grey walls, some heavy security in the form of concrete walls, some barbed wire fencing outside that - electrified, obviously - and multiple guard towers. More tricked up than Cadmus ever was, but then again, it was Cadmus’s downfall that led to plenty of studies upgrading their bases. A bit unnerving, when you think about it.

Nightwing watches a trunk drive into a port in the back, vanishing behind another wall. The little barred windows makes his spine do something funny. He wouldn’t be shocked if this place was fraternizing with a human trafficking ring.

“Well, this is pleasant.” Wally comments. Dick nods, still grimacing at the thought.

“Let’s just get inside,” he grumbles, crouching as he hops up onto the world’s most imperceivable crack in the concrete. His gloves bury tiny claws into the material, and he climbs. He glances at Wally for half a second before looking back up, and frowns, glaring as he hears the guard above grunting.

“Hurry up!” Flash whisper-shouts from the top, waving before looking behind him and ducking. Nightwing mutters something about _impatient speedsters...I’ll show **you** hurrying..._

He slides inside, glancing around. There was one sniper inside, and a hatch that leads to probably some stairs, or maybe a ladder- if they’re feeling feisty.

“We’ll need two, you p-”

Dick is interrupted by a blast of wind in his face, and then Wally is depositing another unconscious guard at his feet, having donned the uniform of him prior.

“Nice work, _Don_.” Dick comments, and Wally looks down at his new name card.

“Thanks, uh-” he looks down, and Dick waves a hand at him.

“I’ll let you try that one again when I get this on,” he says, grinning at Wally’s now red face. “What, want a show?” Dick asks, and he turns redder before turning away. Huh. Wally got a guard with _sunglasses_. Good for someone who's face has been on television several times per week.

“Thanks, _Giovanni_." Wally recovers, belatedly. Then, "What kinda name is Giovanni?”

“Italian.” Dick replies, hucking the ammo for the sniper over the side of the tower before nodding at the hatch, “Let’s get going, before anyone notices us _gone_.”

The sniper outfits, they find, are different to patrol guard uniforms.

_“Lunch break,”_ Dick improvised, smiling casually, _“Hands get cramped up there, ya’ feel?”_

Wally mocked his fake accent after, and Dick told him to clam it. What? If anyone if going to accidentally discover Nightwing’s identity, it’s going to be some rich scientist entrepreneur. It’s not like he changes his like Bruce does as a vigilante.

“So, where are we going, exactly, Agent 47?” Wally asks.

“ _You’re_ the leader here, _Don_.” Dick reminds, under his breath, “We need some proper clothes. These can only get us so far. Bottom floors are more likely to hold important info.”

“Cadmus?”

“Cadmus. Wait for me.” Dick vanishes into the restroom, Wally whistling to himself and sipping on the drink Dick didn’t see him get from a water cooler he also, did not see. There’s a muffled grunt, and then Wally frowns at his cup, and follows in.

_Evan_ and _Lucas_ exit the bathroom, and make their way to the elevator. 

Wally swipes his card against the reader, and then clicks the lowest level. After a moment, he glances up and then at Dick, who just gives him a confused look.

“Dude.” He says, “There’s _elevator music_.”

Dick pauses, and Wally holds his breath for a second, and then Dick mutters, “Son of a bitch.” He mumbles, “Great, now I’ve astral projected to WE.”

“He’s got elevator music?”

“ _Just_ to annoy me, he installed those horrible, separately controlled speakers in each goddamn elevator. Just to annoy me. We were in an expensive hotel this one time, and we heard elevator music, and I told him _wow, this is horrible!_ And you know what he did?”

The doors _ding_ , then slide open, and Dick glances out. The hall is clear, well lit and looks pretty much like the first floor. Bright lights, locked, metal doors and a few probably one-sided glass built into the walls. No flesh-coloured walls, no strange tubes and Superman-adjacent aliens in sight. So far so good. Which is, for all purposes of this mission, actually _bad_. Nightwing is positive his morals are askew.

Nightwing shifts his eyes to the left, then at Flash, who nods.

They quickly and quietly make their way down. Nightwing is three rooms down when Flash is gesturing him over.

Inside the room sits a large _dentist_ ’s chair, except with metal clamps on the rests, and some heavy machinery around and behind it. So, human experimentation. Colour him surprised.

The rest of the rooms hold similar contraptions, but all remain empty. No doctors, no scientists, no nurses and definitely no patients, unless they are primarily working with- _on- **invisible**_ metas, which he highly doubts. Either this portion of the facility is unused, or it’s a cover.

There’s a door at the opposite end of the hallway. It’s locked, and their cards don’t work. Nightwing eyes the switches beside it warily, rolling up the light blue guard shirt away from where his suit remains. He clicks into his mobile computer, breaking through several pesky firewalls before finally reaching digital locking mechanism that allows certain cards into certain areas. He finds out that only _two_ people are authorized inside, and they’re both in _Washington, DC_ right now. There are no blueprints that show what’s beyond, in fact, the door _itself_ isn’t even on it.

“Well, we found our secret _lair_ ,” Dick says, showing Wally, “Blueprints say there’s nothing here.”

“Our cards don’t work. Can you brute force past the lock?”

“Sure. If you want to alert all of the building to our _presence_.” Dick replies, “Can you vibrate us in?”

“Yeah. But I’d recommend you get your breathing exercises lined up beforehand.”

“Great.” Dick drawls.

They shed their guard uniforms in favour of Kevlar and Nomex, Dick pasting his mask back on and fiddling with his gloves. He’s shocked no one noticed his oddly blue boots under a relatively _normal_ outfit. Apparently, confidence can get you into secret government facilities, shoes or no.

Wally places a careful, gloved hand on Dick’s neck, the other around his waist, and then they’re walking through metal. The sudden stop leaves Dick’s body _still_ shaking, his muscles quivering under the skin as if he just ran a marathon on his hands. Oh, and the nausea.

He hurls, then pukes, then hurls again, and then dry heaves a bit on the ground. Wally has a hand on his back until the bile stops, and Dick points into the room vaguely.

When he recovers, Flash is already investigating the strange technology. Well, at least he understood the _code_.

“Well, if they didn’t catch my shit New York, they’d probably catch my puke puddle.” Dick mumbles, looking over the contraptions. There’s what looks to be an ice cell, a general heat-insolating metal surrounding the stuff; a treadmill that looks suspiciously like the one in Star Labs; a darkroom; some training equipment and the tall, domed room has a few oddly shaped _targets_ pasted to the walls. “ _What_ do we have here?”

“Well,” Wally breathes, but leaves it to Dick to elaborate his own thoughts.

“Cadmus?”

“Cadmus.”

“Looks like...” Dick touches the door to the ice chamber, tugging it open and then instantly shutting it again, “They were training metas.”

“Yeah. Or making them,” Wally says, from a new location. It’s beyond a new door, and Dick notes the tubes.

“I was _wondering_ when the human-sized tubes would make an appearance.” Dick hums. He pulls open a slanted hatch near the furthest wall- there’s three of them- and finds a dark hole, filled with cool water, “Sensory isolation.” He mutters.

“Cadmus.” Wally repeats, and Dick echoes it.

“Except this isn’t cloning. At least, I doubt it.” Dick decides, unlocking the computer through his code, his own opening up a copy of the information. “Let’s keep moving.” He says. There’s an elevator.

“No elevator music.” Dick grumbles, leaning against the wall as they go down, “Never thought I’d miss it.”

Wally nods, rubbing his hands nervously together.

“You good?”

“What if we meet someone?” He asks.

“Like a Superboy scenario? Unlikely.” Dick says, “The place is new, and everything looks untouched. That’s what making _me_ most nervous.”

The doors open, and Dick’s eyes widen.

“Huh.”


	4. The Adventurous Adventure of Nightwing and Flash II: An Expedition in Too Many Parts by Nightwing and Noticed by Flash II while aforementioned Nightwing was writing this instead of a mission report

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, yes, fun fact, I'm uploading this after a vague edit and have no clue if I'm gonna keep this! Pray for my soul.

Life is bad.

Life can be good, or it can be bad. More often than not, it’s bad. Right now? Definitely bad. Before this wasn’t too good either, and before that definitely wasn’t good, and after this most likely won’t be good, _either_ , so. Life is bad. Nightwing is well aware.

“Huh.”

The room is cavernous, despite the architecture. Domed upward and they are clearly _deep_ into the ground if that ceiling, on top of the similar one upstairs, on top of the fact that this is lower than level sub-18 of Tempest Tech. There’s a wide array of medical supplies, a shit ton of computers and all of _two_ entire cabinets. _New_ is a way to put it. This place practically fell out of the womb. Jesus Christ.

“Well, this is...” Wally breathes, and that’s when a person- meta, an _invisible meta_ appears before them. Or, well, maybe a teleporter- or a speedster- okay maybe Dick is too invested in this whole _invisible meta_ bit but still. They’re here, and they look pissed.

“Uh oh.” They say, tilting their head aside and grinning, “ _Intruders_.”

“Huh.” Dick reiterates, for proper effect, “Well this is a pickle.”

Flash is out of the elevator in an instant - or, well a _flash_ -, Nightwing flipping as soon as he’s past the obnoxiously small doorway.

The person is dressed in all white, no nametag and no _shoes_. So, a victim. A possible brainwashed victim. Fun.

“We’re here to help,” Nightwing attempts, dodging a hit before they disappear in front of him, “Whoever is doing this to you-”

“You talk too much.” They say, from behind him, and he spins just to get a hit on the back of his head. He’s still not sure what powers they have.

“So I’ve been told.” Dick grumbles.

Flash dodges a hit, and then the person comes into view, and he’s holding them in a headlock. They vanish, but Flash tightens his grip.

“I knew it,” Dick hisses, “Invisible meta!”

“Shut up.” The person growls, “I’m _not_ a meta.”

“Well, take it from one,” Flash hums, “You seem pretty _meta-y_ to me. What’d they do to you?”

“What do you think?”

Wally shrugs, then grunts when they try to elbow him, “Well, if you’d _stop struggling,_ we’d be glad to get you outta here.”

“Not possible.” They say, almost robotically.

“C’mon, we’ve gotten the clone of _Superman_ free of a more advanced facility than this, and we were _teens_. I'd _hope_ two Leaguers could get you out of this place.” Nightwing says. They slowly form back together, eyes locked on Nightwing’s. They glare firmly.

“ _Not_. _Possible_.”

“Can we at least know who you are? Your name?” He attempts.

“03, baby.” They reply, grinning again.

“3?” Dick and Wally meet eyes.

“Where are the other two-” Wally begins, and then he’s frozen in place. Well, Dick supposes, at least he knows his _detective skills_ are still up to standard.

Nightwing jumps into a spin kick, knocking down the new meta and pinning them down.

03 pulls his arm taught and tries to tug it out of place. Nightwing reaches back, making a wild guess and throwing them over his shoulder. He rolls forward and slams them into the wall behind, knocking down an array of vials of _something_. Colours drip on them and his face, and he kicks 03 in the neck, holding them there.

He turns and grabs the freeze meta by the throat when their footsteps give them away, looking around.

“Where’s the last one?” He demands, “ _Where_?”

“Right here.”

Nightwing’s vision blacks out, and he tightens his muscles.

His arm freezes, and he lets go in favour of _keeping his limb_. He shakes the arm and vaguely hears what _sounds_ like a speedster. Flash got out.

“Flash!” He shouts, “Last meta- _blind_!” It’s as much as he can get out between hitting cabinets and trying to orient himself. He kicks at whoever is there, and breathes, “Well, 03, at least _this_ _fight’s_ the same.”

He hears a laugh, and then they’re on his back. He flings himself upright, then further into a backbend until they let go.

“Jesus!”

“I know.” He walks over with his hands, keeping his muscles tensed as he tries not to get more injured.

“Night! _Stop_!” Flash calls, and Nightwing freezes - metaphorically. His arm is thawing, thankfully.

There’s more grunts, and then he hears Flash shouting.

“ _Fix him_.”

“You’re too _pushy_.”

“ _Fix_. _Him_. **_Now_**.”

Nightwing’s vision returns, slowly, in spots and patches like he stood up too fast, and he looks around to find himself much further away than anticipated. Despite all his blind Robin training, he _still_ fucked up. Well, that’s a few pegs down on his already dwindling ego.

In front of him- or, rather, in front of and a few steps to the _left_ \- stands Flash, holding two metas in either, vibrating hands, his foot likely on 03.

“So, which is which?” Dick asks, recovering easily, “Who’s the original?”

“That’d be _me_.” Says the freeze meta. Their hair is nearly white, barely coloured by any shade of blonde he’s seen before, eyes piercing him with a blue glare. Well, if the shoe fits.

“Then you’d be 02.” Dick says, finally getting a good look at the one that blinded him.

“ _Pleasure_ ,” They hiss.

“Only three of you?” Flash asks.

“Only.” 03 says, appearing again.

“Well, you’ve got a real top-notch team here. The League could use metas like you.” Flash hums, “I’m sure if you _stand down_ , Batman might be inclined to see you returned _safely_ to the surface.”

“Batman hates metas.” 01 says.

“Sure, but he loves me.” Flash replies, grinning at Nightwing. “C’mon. What does _Tempest_ have, that we don’t?”

“Tempest doesn’t have _anything_. It’s what the League has.” 02 tells them, and- honestly? Numbers? Really? Now that’s boring. Get some code-names, maybe. Like the military. He saw a few military guys up top, why not throw around some clichés, have some fun? That’s the problem with these supervillains. No sense of humour.

“Aaaand what might that be?” Flash inquires. Nightwing ponders how long he’ll be able to hold them all like that. They’re clearly _strong_. It puts him on edge.

Dick walks closer, giving a once-over to each member of their weird Tempest Team. They all look young, no older than late teens, early twenties. No older than _him_. They don’t look _uncared_ for. No one’s malnourished, no one’s losing hair, no one has eyebags as big as Tim’s- just in general.

“I have to say, I’ve never met a bunch of _test subjects_ that actually _liked_ their captures. Not like this, at least.” Nightwing hums, “Usually it’s a lot more...” he makes a gesture with his fingers, as if that’d help him find whatever word he’s looking for, “Brainwash-y.”

“Heroes.” 01 says, at last, “The League has _heroes_. They have aliens and Atlanteans and Amazonians. And yet they let _humans_ play their game. And _Batman_ has the _audacity_ to _hate_ those stronger than him.”

“Tempest is making heroes. Making _metas_." Nightwing says, looking at Flash. They're 2 for 2. He ignores their offended looks and asks, “That’s their play? The perfect soldier? Trust me, there’s no such thing.”

“We’re the closest they’ve gotten.” 02 tells him, “We’re their _protégés_.”

“Yeah, well, they’re going to throw you out as soon as they get a better make.” Nightwing snaps, “News flash! That’s now these companies work. You might be the best right now, but you won’t be when the next batch comes through. So you can come with us, and actually get to _live_ your lives, or you can stay here until recall day.”

They have a glare-off, which ends when their comms buzz. Flash glances at Nightwing, who scowls before touching his.

“A _little_ busy.” He says, maintaining eye contact behind his mask.

 _'Nightwing.'_ He hears Tim's voice, _'The lab’s security has discovered you. Get out of there.'_

“Shit.” Nightwing looks at Flash, who frowns, then reappears in a blur, the three metas now locked in power-surpressant collars.

“Lucky thing, huh?” Flash asks, grinning, “Apparently Tempest Tech _doesn’t_ trust you,” he directs at the glowering three, and then tosses 03 at Nightwing, who catches them easily.

“Let’s just get outta here.”

* * *

A flash from Flash- or two- later, and the five are all outside. Nightwing and 03 take the _human_ route back to base, while Flash races beside him at a casual speed. Well, casual for him.

“Is this what you Leaguers do all day?” 03 shouts, “Break into government property and kidnap people?”

“Oh, yeah, all the time!” Dick shouts back. Then, “And technically, I’m not even a member of the League! I just said that to convince you.”

“Followed _closely_ by the kidnapping,” they drawl, and he rolls his eyes.

“C’mon, no one wants bullet holes in their brand spanking new uniform,” Wally says, “And it’s not our fault your advanced team of doctor-scientists just so _happened_ to have _three_ suppressors on hand.”

They grumble, and the two high five despite the blur. Nightwing shakes out his now _burning_ hand and revs the engine of the motor, and they speed their way through the desert.

* * *

“ _Three_ particularly talkative metas, comin’ right up!” Nightwing calls, patting 03’s back and then asking, “You _do_ have a name, right? Like a name-name?”

“No.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Metas?” Batman appears from nowhere, and gives them all a quick glance.

“They were _making_ them.” Nightwing explains, “Human-sized pods and everything. This one can turn invisible. Flash’s got one that can _blind_ people, and one with _ice_ _powers_.”

“Hn.” 

Nightwing raises an eyebrow, then lowers it instantly, nudging 03 forward, “They came semi-willingly. They don’t seem _brainwashed_ , but there was some freaky shit going on down there.”

“I expect a full mission report by tomorrow morning.” Bruce says. Then, quieter, "And your presence is required at home tonight. Dinner."

What a _Batman_ _way_ to say 'family supper'. Can't have the _metas_ knowing they _eat_ , can they?

“ _Dinner_ , right.” Nightwing says. Right. Yes. Dinner. Because Nightwing has been _distant, recently,_ according to _everyone_. It was Tim’s idea, which is why Dick can’t just say _sorry! Busy._ because he used to do that with Jason, and now he’ll never have a clear conscience, so here he is.

“Dinner, huh?” Flash asks, as soon as his hands are empty, and they are headed to the hall to work on that aforementioned _report_. “What, meeting your own parents, now?”

“You know how it is,” he says with a grin that falters immediately. “Apparently I’ve been _distant_.”

Wally’s cowl is down, now, and he raises an eyebrow at him. Or two. He’d probably draw a third on just to raise some more if he had a marker on him.

“You _have_.” He replies, “I was gonna ask you, but then the mission, and I didn’t want you off your game...”

Dick slides into one of the chairs, giving him a look as he waits for the inevitable-

“Are you okay?”

There it is.

“Fine, Walls. Really.” Dick insists, clicking away into the right program and sighing. He pushes away from the table, rubbing his forehead and looking up at Wally, “I don’t know.”

Wally sits down, scooches closer and gives him his I’m listening expression.

“I mean, whatever it is, man...I’m here. I’ll listen.”

Dick shakes his head. What the hell does he say to that? Wally might have person skills, but that does _not_ mean _Dick_ does. It’s not like he’s had the _traditional, **child** experience_ to gain such. He can throw on a charming smile and toss one-liners around like confetti, but he sure as hell can’t talk emotions. Look at who his father is! He’s got the emotional constipation of a _rock_ , rock’s don’t _have_ emotions or digestive tracks _to_ get constipated- it’s a whole thing.

Not to mention the whole matter of _he doesn’t know what’s wrong_.

“If you can figure out what’s wrong with me, I’d be glad to hear it.” He decides on, turning back to the keyboard with a sudden interest.

Wally sighs, but doesn’t leave.

“Gonna write your own, Mister _Official League Member - the Flash_ , or do you expect to cheat off me?” Dick asks, kicking him from under the desk. Wally rolls his eyes and rolls around to get to the next computer, and types faster than he necessarily has to.

“Done and done.”

“Asshole.”

“ _You_ love me.”

“ _Asshole_.”


End file.
